


The Onset of Adulthood

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Birthday, Brother relationship, Brotherly Love, Brotherly conversations, Epilepsy, Family, Fit, Gen, Happy Family, Hurt/Comfort, JME, Janz Syndrome, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Myoclonic Epilepsy, Myoclonics, Myoclonus, Seizure, Seizures, Sherlock turns eighteen, Stigmatised, University, accidental ableism, belittling, epileptic, fitting, fraternal love, h/c, myoclonic jerks, seizure disorder, social stigma, stigma - Freeform, teen!lock, the holmes family - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:04:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7493139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock turns eighteen and Mycroft returns to the family home to help celebrate. Granny Holmes puts on her usual birthday dinner for her Grandson, and Sherlock realises that the stigma of epilepsy is most rife within his family. As always, Mycroft is on hand to remind Sherlock that he is who he is, and he will always be his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Onset of Adulthood

The idea of his brother being an adult was a strange one to Mycroft. Sherlock would forever be his curly-haired little brother; the chubby cheeked, mop-top with big blue eyes and a love of animals, who sucked his thumb when he slept and who continued to call his mother ‘mummy’ well into his teenage years, who announced when he was going to pee and left the bathroom door open, who slept with a nightlight and a teddy bear, and who liked to drink cold milk in a tumbler rather than orange juice or a cup of tea with his breakfast. But he was an adult. Eighteen now, he was biologically, to all intents and purposes, a man and in his final term in the upper sixth at school, the autumn period of the year would see him going to university and studying for a lifelong career. And it was that thought - the idea that Sherlock would be self-sufficient and independent in almost every area of his life - that frightened Mycroft to his very core. 

“The dorm rooms are spacious enough, some are singular too so that can be secured with a quick telephone to the main offices, I’m sure. We managed it for Mike.” Violet considered, pouring tea into the waiting cups of her husband and eldest son. “Tea, my darling?” She hovered the pot over the cup she’d laid out for Sherlock, though she assumed she would know what his reply would be. 

Stuffing toast into his mouth, Sherlock frowned and shook his head, “Uh-uh.” He hummed around his food. “I have milk.” He pointed to the glass at his side. Mycroft saw the small, outward twitch that emanated from the limb as Sherlock drew it back into his lap quickly, but it seemed his mother and father were oblivious to it. 

“...I suppose there’s always the option of you and Mycroft living in his house together outside of the university; you’re living out there now anyway, Mycroft, and Sherlock could travel into the campus in the mornings. That’d be a good idea, wouldn’t it?” Violet smiled hopefully at her eldest child, only to find both him and Sherlock shaking their heads vigorously before her. 

“No!” Sherlock argued, swallowing down another bite of his toast. “I’m not living off campus, I want to be around to everything.” 

“And I am not sharing my house with him!” Mycroft defended. 

“I looked into the local town, there is a small collection of shops that includes a pharmacy, so that’s convenient. Mum and I won’t have to bring your scripts up.” Siger said, peering over his newspaper to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Full independence, isn’t that what you wanted?” 

Sherlock nodded his head, “Absolutely.” The sudden curse of ‘shit’ that escaped his lips a second later made everyone jerk their heads, slightly startled, and they fixed their eyes on Sherlock as he rotated his shoulder, working out the last of a particularly vigorous succession of myoclonics that seemed to lay siege to his entire right arm. “Stop it,” He groaned, flicking his eyes over them all. His scolding made them all look away. 

“Besides,” Mycroft took up, his eyes flicking back over Sherlock as the younger Holmes focused back on the tablets laid out before him. “Living with Sherlock would be hellish, and I’m rarely home these days with work.” He dismissed his mother’s idea with a roll of his eyes and a flick of his wrist. “And I don’t have nearly enough milk in the fridge to satisfy him.” 

Violet chuckled, unable to hold it back, watching Sherlock guzzle down his glass of milk to knock back his tablets. “I don’t think there is any other house in existence with enough milk for our boy.” She smiled affectionately, placing her hand on Sherlock’s head as she moved behind him to place the teapot onto the kitchen counter. “Which reminds me, if you want me to bring a milkshake powder box to Granny’s this evening, remind me which flavour it is you prefer, Sherlock?” She turned and placed her hands on his shoulders, peering around to look into his face. “You know Granny won’t have anything like that in the house and with it being your birthday celebrations this weekend, the house is bound to be filled with more alcohol than anything else, and I’m not sure your Granny even knows milk comes powdered in flavours.” She mused.

“Banana,” Sherlock said, licking his lips, “But I’m okay drinking alcohol.” 

“You are not!” Mycroft interjected quickly, glaring at his mother as she straightened and gave him a ‘oh, don’t be so hard on him’ look. “You know you’re not supposed to drink on your medication, Sherlock.” 

“He was teasing, Mike.” Siger tutted, putting his paper down in favour of picking up his cup of tea. “You two need to stop swiping at one another, you’ve been doing it for days. This is supposed to have been a lovely week together, celebrating Sherlock turning eighteen and your new position at work, and all you two seem to want to do is bicker.” 

“That’s what children do,” Sherlock grinned, teasingly. 

“Not exactly children though, are you?” Siger shook his head in amusement. 

Sherlock got to his feet abruptly, pushing back his chair noisily on the tiled floor. “I need to get dressed.” He said, stretching his arms above his head, his pyjama t-shirt rising up and revealing his slim hips. “What time are we going to Granny’s?” 

“Four,” Violet said sweetly. “But don’t be too long, my darling, we’re meeting your Auntie Amanda in town at eleven. You have an hour, maximum, so do not get absorbed in a book!” She shook her head. “And please, Sherlock, do something with your hair!” 

 

 

 

Violet preceded her sons into the quaint coffee shop she was meeting her sister-in-law in, and greeted her with a broad smile and a wide-armed hug. The boys offered her respectful smiles as they sat down at a table, far from the window. Almost immediately, Amanda began to cry. Mycroft averted his eyes, Sherlock looked awkwardly between his mother and Aunt, and Violet was quick to soothe her with kind words. 

“Amanda! Whatever’s the matter, my love?” 

“We’re getting a divorce!” Amanda threw out her hands. “George isn’t happy anymore. Three years and he already wants to leave me. I haven’t told Siger yet, but how could I? He’d be disappointed in me and I know Abigail and my mother are going to look down their noses at me.” Amanda sobbed quietly into her hands. 

Biting his bottom lip, Sherlock looked sideways at Mycroft and shrugged his shoulders, not entirely sure how to react. Mycroft returned his shrug, his eyebrows high up on his forehead. Violet, though, was quick to placate her sister-in-law. “Oh, stop, nobody is disappointed.” She told her, “How could we be? Sometimes marriages just don’t work out.” 

Amanda snorted, “All of my marriages _just don’t work out_.” She spat, and dabbed at the make-up that ran from her red eyes. “I thought George and I would be a forever union; I even considered adopting children with him because, goodness knows, I’m too old for pregnancy.” She threw out her hands dramatically. Sherlock winced and wrapped his left hand over his face, fingers curling around his right temple as Mycroft, at his side, visibly shuddered. “I’m embarrassed to go to mother’s this evening; everyone will be there and when I arrive without George, what am I supposed to say? I can’t very well just announce it.” 

“Honestly, Amanda, there is no shame in it.” Violet reasoned, reaching across the table to squeeze Amanda’s shaky hands. 

“That’s rich coming from you, Vi!” Amanda laughed sarcastically, “You’ve a disabled child and failed to tell anyone because you’re _ashamed_.” 

Violet’s mouth bobbed open and she withdrew her hands, scorned. Mycroft looked first at his mother, eyes wide, then at his Aunt, before finally turning his face to Sherlock. Sherlock’s brow was set in a firm frown and his lips were drawn in, not quite a pout but firmly gathered in a measured expression that was clearly in place to prevent an outburst of any kind. 

It took a moment, but Amanda seemed to realise what she’d said and she turned to Sherlock with a fearfully sorrowful expression. “Oh, Locky, I’m sorry…” She cooed, “I didn’t - I don’t…” She babbled. 

Sherlock’s face crinkled at the use of his infant nickname. “I’m not disabled,” He said, surprisingly more even-toned than Mycroft had been braced for. 

“No, no, of course not.” Amanda shook her head, embarrassed. “I don’t know why I said that, sweetie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.” 

“No.” Mycroft agreed with her. “Perhaps you two would like to continue this discussion in private. Sherlock and I can take a cab home.” 

“Don’t go, I’m sorry-,” Amanda reached out as Mycroft rose to his feet and tugged at Sherlock’s arm to pull him up along with him. Her hand caught the rolled up sleeve of Mycroft’s shirt and she grasped it gently. “Don’t leave, boys, I’m very sorry. I’m upset - I don’t know why I said it. Forgive me.” 

Sherlock stood as Mycroft continued to pull on his arm. “We’ll see you at Granny’s this evening.” Sherlock said slowly, seemingly working hard to keep his temper. 

“Boys, please…” Violet looked over her shoulder as her sons went to leave the coffee shop. “Ask your father to pay for the cab when you reach home,” She said, catching the expression on both of her son’s faces that told her nothing she or Amanda would say would make them stay, that said she was wrong for staying too - that said they agreed with what Amanda had said about shame.

 

 

 

To Sherlock’s surprise, his Granny’s house had been festively decorated. Each doorway had balloons and a banner, and the dining room table had been covered in an array of drinks, appetisers and a large, hand-decorated birthday cake bearing his name. It was embarrassing in some respects - the Holmes’ rarely did large displays of sentimentality and affection, outside of Violet and Siger themselves, and to see their Grandmother’s home so spiritedly brought to life made Sherlock and Mycroft feel a little awkward. 

Mycroft noticed immediately that his cousins were more agreeable these days. Alison, originally a big mouth and entirely too bratty for his liking, was strikingly attractive and accompanied to the party (of sorts) by her new fiance. Her younger sister, older than Sherlock my two years, was equally as physically appealing - compared to being a fat and rather grotesque child - and escorted by her boyfriend of the last twelve months. They were considerably less boring than he remembered, too, engaging in their conversation despite their subjects not being entirely to his tastes. 

Sherlock, however, failed to notice anyone. Distancing himself from the rabble of people in the dining room with charged glasses and merriment on their minds, he sectioned himself off in the guest lounge with his hand-me-down laptop from Mycroft and the book he had to get through before the end of the week that he had not even bent the spine on yet. 

“What are you doing, Locky?” Abigail popped her head around the doorframe, startling Sherlock out of his concentration. He pushed down the lid of the computer and looked up at his Aunt as she came into the room, using the dimmer to turn up the lights. “You’re the birthday boy and you’re squirrelled away in here?” She laughed, clearly eighty percent of the way to intoxicated. 

“I have an assignment.” Sherlock said, blankly staring at her. He was a little concerned at the overuse of his old nickname today - both aunts in one day.

“It’s a saturday evening.” Abigail told him, pointing a finger in his direction and laughing. 

“And it’s due on tuesday.” Sherlock said, shrugging. “And it’s loud in there,” he nodded toward the door. “Usually, it’s quiet in here.” 

Abigail invited herself into one of the fireside chairs and clutched her half-emptied wine glass between both hands. “Your big brother’s changed; very well-to-do these days, hey?” She chuckled. “Bet you’re proud of him? Civil Servant and all.” 

“Yeah.” He nodded his head without interest. 

“So you like sitting in here, yeah? The quiet. I suppose it’s nice to sit off on your own when there’s so much going on.” Abigail said broadly, smiling at Sherlock with her head titled to the side. He nodded at her. “Yeah,” She whispered. “Hiding a bit…” 

“What?” Sherlock frowned at her. 

“Nothing.” She smiled broadly and got to her feet. “Your brother was looking for you, I’ll tell him you’re in here hiding out, yes?” She wobbled a little on her high heels before leaving the room, closing the door softly behind her. 

Sherlock sat back into the high-backed sofa, leaving his book and laptop on the coffee table, and rubbed his hands across his face. Is that what really happened when you turned eighteen? People would act differently, belittle you, talk to you oddly, and generally become more insufferable than before? He was barely given time to muse over it before Mycroft stepped into the room, carrying a tumbler of whisky and a highball glass filled with banana milkshake. Despite himself, Sherlock laughed, holding out his hand to receive the drink. 

“Delightful.” He said, setting the glass down onto the table. Mycroft stepped back and sat in the chair Abigail had left. “She’s drunk.” He said bluntly. 

“They all are.” Mycroft nodded his head, and sat back in the chair. He crossed his left ankle over his right knee. “Finished?” he nodded at the computer. 

“Will be soon.” Sherlock nodded his head. “Needed a break, though; Auntie Abi coming in was the excuse I needed to close the lid.” He admitted. 

“Headache?” Mycroft asked, frowning, whirring his glass around in his left hand. He frowned deeper when Sherlock nodded. “Emotional distress can bring your seizures to ahead, Sherlock. Let go of what Amanda said earlier; it has never been a truer maxim to say it is bad for your health to hold a grudge.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I know.” He licked his lips. 

“Mummy didn’t tell them,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly. “It was Granny. Dad spoke with her one evening when he and Mummy had argued about something or other. She took me aside today and told me about it; said that she wished Mummy had been honest, and that she doesn’t intend on treating you any differently. Abi and Amanda are...singular in their oddities.” 

Sherlock exhaled a sigh heavily through his nose and closed his eyes. “This is what I mean when I say that the neon-sign of epilepsy follows me everywhere. I’ve been seizure free besides the myoclonics in the morning for almost ten months. And yet I’m looked at, watched every time I do anything, and apparently considered disabled…” He rolled his eyes dramatically then looked at his brother. “That’s why I really want to get settled at the University. Beyond those who need to know, I’m not going there as the kid who had a fit in class.” 

Mycroft winced at Sherlock’s terminology. He’d never liked the word ‘fit’ - and they never used it; it seemed belittling of the effect of a tonic-clonic seizure. The word seizure was so much more fitting - Sherlock’s mind and body was seized for a while. 

“This is nice, though,” Mycroft gestured around him with the glass in his hand. “Granny doing all of this. That’s not stigmatising, that’s you being her baby Grandson.” He smirked. 

Sherlock laughed a little, deep in his chest, and nodded his head, “I always was her favourite.” 

“No denying that. It’s the hair, I think. Reminiscent of dear old Uncle Rudy.” Mycroft nodded with another, broad smirk. 

“Oh, don’t!” Sherlock shook his head, sitting forwards to retrieve his glass. “I don’t intend on ever wearing a dress.” 

Mycroft let out a forced but appreciated laugh. “I’m pleased to hear that, little brother. Very pleased indeed.” He charged his glass, and Sherlock echoed the movement. “Many happy returns, Sherlock.”


End file.
